Pity
by Jack of Chocolate
Summary: All great love stories started with pity. Nick's POV, implied slash. Intimately detailed spoilers; do not read unless you want to shoot yourself in the head.


Pity

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A/N: _The Great Gatsby_ is a great book, so here is my strangely twisted version of it. I am sure I made many mistakes with the plot as it tended to confuse me a little when I read it. And I am never too good at following plot lines so carefully. I hope you can excuse some of my cringing carelessness. Done in Nick's POV, as I am following suit with the book.

Please enjoy.

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I have always been kind of a shy man.

I never quite grasped the concept of assertion or accepted my vulnerability as a part of myself. I suppose no one ever taught me how to accomplish such a task. I am a very inward person; while the outside remains intact and carefully composed, I am often flooded with emotional turmoil in many, inexpressible ways. I may have loved once. I may have thought that I loved Jordan Baker's leisure and her expressions of leisure once. I desired her freedom, perhaps.

Interestingly enough, I have always found in certain theaters that the love always begins with a man, a woman, and sympathy. I suppose I may be called sentimental. But I choose to call myself observational, seeing as how I have seen these orders of circumstances many times before. I may also have to call myself unconventional because, for every woman I met, I never felt the blistering sparkle of sympathy and pity. Even the small affair I had once upon a time, I knew that something was temporary and unworkable. I never pitied Jordan in those endearing, affectionate ways either. I never knew what I could have pitied about her existence and life. She was unpitiable.

Now I am packing up everything; my life, my memories, my silent eulogies. I am moving away from East Egg. I suppose that I began a bit too superficial, and I will not be able to redeem an aristocratic yet quiet way of life that I so desired underneath all of the elegant partying. My modest house in comparison to the magnificent effort built up by Gatsby beckoned for me. I knew Gatsby would never rise from the derelict swimming pool, lying in the calm reflection of blue and crystal, marred only by the ashen purposeless blood that flowed largely into its purity, both as a method for rebellion against cleaning the pool and reason for living. I felt a temptation to barge in there and search for Gatsby's body although I knew it was probably cremated expensively. I directed my eyes toward the weathered pupils of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg because I knew he would only tell sullen, indubitable truths that I could only accept and aspire towards becoming.

The thought of Gatsby hindered my step toward my future. I never quite liked his last name, not after I found out that he had been born as James Gatz. I was more drawn to this name because of its mediocrity and simplicity. It was personal. It was hidden. It was a part stolen by Jay Gatsby that he never wanted back again, a part of him forcibly lost and burned. It was a part of him that he was afraid to show Daisy. She would be unimpressed. But I was drawn; closer. The ambitious boy who wanted to be a man, who desperately clawed his way through the top for that one perfect girl.

Also, his first name, Jay, never fully expressed his life in the form of an alias. It withdrew so many past experiences and normalcy that I found it almost hasty and spiteful. I wanted someone to say his name. _I_ wanted to say his name. I wanted to see the vulnerability in his eyes as a part of his woven past was unraveled. It was a part that Daisy could live without. Then I saw him as a dead, sunken carcass reminiscent of a man, waiting faithfully for another chance at materializing a perfect moment in his mind. He waited for paradise.

Then when he lay down in the coffin, eyes lit with the dark lamp of death, I thought I heard him speak. I still imagine sometimes. I seldom wish we were on first-name basis during the short time I had known him.

"Old sport," he would say, with a practiced, graceful smile on his face, "You have got to tell Daisy. She loved me. She would be devastated. I loved her. Do you understand?"

"James," I would reply, "Why don't you like it when people call you James?"

Then, I am not sure what happens. I never caught the truly vulnerable side of Gatsby, and if I envisioned it in my head, I am sure I would have it all wrong. But I do not need to see him in such a personal way for it to be personal for me. It immediately became my directly correlated business when his funeral turned out empty and blue, without anyone except Mr. Gatz, the minister, later Owl-eyes, and I huddled around his pitiful body. Pitiful. Sympathy.

I wanted to protect Gatsby's human nature.

"He was only human," I wanted to say, "He only wanted a woman. Isn't that what most men want?"

I began pitying him after he was dead. I stood proudly as his only real friend, who was not even on a first-name basis with the man. I resented Daisy and Tom. But the resentment wore itself out, and I was only left with the vague feeling of compassion for Gatsby as a person created by ambition itself. He eventually became distinguished in my mind as a broken man, unable to recover from his inability to aim for a different cause. He gave me a reason to speak with assertion and a rational confidence. I began to voice, not simply observe, after his death because he motivated me.

Did I ever mention that all real love stories begin with pity?

"James," I would say, "I would have accepted you. No peace offerings, no champagne, no expensive shirts, no Dan Cody. I would have accepted you, exactly the way you are. And loved you, exactly the same."

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A/N: It was pretty short, but I think I liked writing it nonetheless. Please drop in a review, as it would help me improve and motivate me to write more.


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